Why I Write

When I was in 6th grade I typed, in all caps (and for some strange reason, red ink), a dreadful and woeful attempt at a book entitled “He Was My Best Friend, He Was My Brother.”  It was passed around the lunchroom, page by page, to much acclaim despite its maudlin subject matter, a girl whose brother gets diagnosed with a terminal disease.  I petered out after about ten pages.

My friends from summer camp remember me in deep concentration as I scribbled in my diary on my top bunk bed.  Those diaries, from 4th grade through college are my time capsules and access to memories, both good and bad, that I would have forgotten otherwise.  The writing is atrocious but flings me back to the critical and mundane moments that make up a life.

I hope my writing now is a bit beyond “atrocious.”  Some of my pieces about my mother’s suicide and my work with substance abusers and inmates have reached far and wide, some have even gone viral, which I suppose is the modern-day equivalent of being passed around an elementary school cafeteria.

I’m also really funny, I swear.  Interspersed with the intense and emotional, there are words and stories that will make you laugh out loud.  Promise.

Thanks a million for reading.